


Borrowed Blue

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6154210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Steve's just not cut out for spy work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borrowed Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I desperately needed fluff and crack to balance out all the doom and gloom I've been writing, so prompts were requested. Cayra asked for: _That one time they tried to stuff Captain America into a dress._

"Guys," Steve says doggedly, holding onto his bland expression by his fingernails. The Commandos clustered around him are already giving him the sharkiest of grins; protesting too hotly would just be throwing blood in the water. "Seriously. This is not going to work."

"I dunno, Cap," Dugan muses, still holding up the dress to Steve's chest like he honestly thinks he has any hope of getting Steve into it, whether it fits or not. "Blue is your color...."

Steve isn't blushing. He really isn't, or if he is, it's just because of where they are. When Bucky said he'd found a place where seven men could wander in after dark without tipping off the Hydra spy who frequented the billiards club across the street, Steve had figured he meant a bar. Not a whorehouse. _Definitely_ not a whorehouse willing to offer them disguises. Well, one disguise. Which will turn out to be a wasted effort. _Really_.

He's just grateful they're having this conversation in a quiet backroom, though he does have to wonder what the rest of the house think seven guys are doing in a quiet backroom with a dress.

"Sure, blue _would_ be my color, if it were five sizes bigger." And not a dress. Really it's amazing it even comes close to fitting, but the house's madam is a statuesque Amazon with a figure to make Rubens weep, and what with one thing and another, he's not _quite_ out of the danger zone. Let out the seams a little in the shoulders and...no. Absolutely not. And _nobody can make him_.

"You sure about that, Steve?" Bucky asks with a wicked smirk. God, has he been thinking out loud? "Because I really think we can make this work."

" _Buck_ \--"

"No, really!" Bucky insists, giving him a blatant once-over while trying to cage a grin. "I mean, sure, this would've been easier with the old you...."

Gabe shakes his head. "Was he really such a little guy? Because I'm having trouble picturing it."

Gabe is his _new favorite_.

Bucky's already nodding, damn him. "Oh, yeah. We'd have had to bum a skirt off that dish at the piano, God's honest truth. Tiny little waist you could just about get your hands around," Bucky gushes earnestly as he mimes for the peanut gallery, only the gleam in his eyes giving him away. "Big blue eyes, ass like a ripe peach--"'

"Don't forget flat as a board," Steve adds dryly, rolling those big blue eyes as the others crack up.

Bucky just tilts his head, eying him judiciously. "Yeah, you got a point there, Rogers. Maybe if we could swap the chest off this model and give it to the other one--"

" _Buck_!"

Bucky just laughs as Steve smacks down his hands, which had been making a show of cupping air. They all probably think he's just scolding Bucky for being disrespectful--which he is!--but he really doesn't need to be thinking about Bucky's hands on him, not now. Not ever, really, but especially not while everyone's staring already.

"I don't know, Barnes," Falsworth pipes up with suspect innocence. "Seems like your arse would look rather fetching in that frock while we're on the subject."

"My ass would look fetching in a burlap sack," Bucky agrees instantly, "but I thought you guys wanted me on the roof."

"Well," Dum Dum drawls, warming to the subject as he swivels to hold the dress up to Bucky instead. "Cap's not a bad shot himself, and at least it'd keep him out of trouble if you two switched places."

Steve snaps his mouth shut with a scowl, frozen on the verge of siding with Dugan. A dress is one thing, but getting sidelined is another.

And Bucky is nodding again, the bastard, like he's actually considering it. "Good plan. There's just one problem. See, there's this _feature_ I've got that's, uh...kind of hard to miss. Like... _really_ hard to miss, and there's no skirt and _definitely_ no padding that's gonna hide it."

The room falls silent as eyes go wide. Even Steve has to struggle not to glance down, even though he's already well aware of this problem. He's been aware for years.

Just before the silence can grow uncomfortable, Bucky arches a brow, tilts his head up, and says, "No dame's gonna have my chin."

He's met with a chorus of groans, Morita grumbling, "I hate you so much right now," as Dugan smacks a now-snickering Bucky about the head and shoulders with his hat.

"Laugh it up, Barnes," Dugan growls, like Bucky needs the encouragement, "because that _feature_ of yours is about to get a nice, close shave."

"And the legs!" Dernier throws out, lifting a hand to make certain his _very important_ reminder is heard.

Dugan nods firmly, brushing his hat off once before plonking it back onto his head with a huff. "Right. Don't forget the legs. _Please_."

Both of Bucky's brows fly up as he glances around the room, mouth twisted like he wants to laugh them off but isn't sure the joke's not on him. "Wait, _I'm_ wearing the dress? Uh...since when?"

"Since you fellows reminded us what a bad idea it is to send either of you in undercover alone," Falsworth explains, shaking his head. "You'd start a brawl--"

"--and Cap would start a feminist movement," Dugan agrees with a grin. "At least if he's busy defending your honor, he won't draw as much attention."

"Leaving _you_ to get the drop on the spy," Gabe finishes. Damn, they're good; Bucky actually looks interested in that part.

Bucky looks at the dress. He glances up, eyes flicking each of the guys in turn before cutting sideways to Steve. He looks back at the dress, and his face hardens in determination.

"Right," he says. "Well, I ain't wearing my boots with that, so somebody go see if Martine has some shoes to match. Dum Dum, you're her type."

"Uh," Dugan says, going a little red around the collar.

Bucky grabs the dress from him with an unimpressed look. "Get," he orders, and Dugan hightails it for the door. "And ask her for some gloves while you're at it!" Then he turns to the rest of them, eyes narrowed.

"Dernier," he raps out, and their little demolitionist instantly hops to attention. "Go up to the bar and ask for Sophie. Tell her we need to borrow a scarf--something _classy_ that goes with blue."

Dernier snaps a wordless salute and dives after Dugan.

"Gabe. The redhead at the card table. Name's Josette; do _not_ piss her off, but let her know Steve doesn't even come close to looking like he can afford me. She'll know what to do."

"On it, Sarge," Gabe says with a grin, straightening his collar as he strolls out the door.

"Uh-huh. So, Morita. Roof's a shitty vantage," he says, mouth twitching as Morita deflates. "But luckily for you, we need eyes more than guns. You're still running intel; go up to the second floor and knock on the third left door: two long, three short. Clarisse will let you in. And for God's sake," he yells after Morita's retreating back, "keep your mind on the job!"

By now Steve is gaping. How...how does Bucky know all this?

"And what do you have for me?" Falsworth asks, the corners of his mouth tucked in as he fights a smile.

"You got your shaving kit on you?"

"Always," Falsworth admits with a chuckle.

"Great. Go ask Dominique if we can borrow her room. We're going to need hot water and towels, too."

Falsworth arches a brow. "And Dominique is...?"

Bucky grins. "The dish at the piano. Be nice; I watched her coldcock a guy three times her size just the other night."

"Vive la résistance," Falsworth says with a knowing smile. He still smooths his moustache as he goes to find his mission, leaving Bucky and Steve alone.

"Wait," Steve says, suddenly caught flat-footed. "These girls are all Resistance?"

"Well, not all of them," Bucky says with a shrug, shooting him a look. "Jeez, Steve--did you really think I'd suggest running an op out of some random cathouse?"

"Okay, now that you mention it," Steve mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I just, uh...figured you'd talked them into it."

Bucky laughs, lit up with delight like he hasn't been in far too long. "Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, pal, but no. That's just good old-fashioned word of mouth at work."

"Huh," he says, but-- "Wait. How do you know all this stuff about them?"

"Reconnaissance," Bucky jokes, then shakes his head at Steve's doubtful look. "I talked to 'em, Steve; what else? These dames could put a master spy to shame, and they made sure I knew what resources we had available. It doesn't have to be about getting them in the sack."

"Right," Steve says, feeling like a heel. He can see it if he thinks about it: Bucky surrounded by gorgeous, barely-dressed women in a smoky backroom, the six of them trading war stories instead of flirtations. Bucky's always been a natural with the ladies, and it's exactly because of this: he genuinely likes talking with them, remembers everything they have to say. "So, uh...you just sent the guys out--"

"To get their asses kicked if they pull anything stupid," Bucky agrees with a shit-eating grin. "Serves 'em right for sticking me with the dress."

"You mean the dress you were going to stick _me_ with?"

"Well, yeah," Bucky says, like he can't believe Steve even needs to bring this up. "I mean, think about it. In a technical sense, your ass is _literally_ perfect. Who'd blame me for trying?"

Steve's sputtering cracks Bucky up again, but there's something off about the way he drops his head, laughing into his chest instead of drinking in the spectacle of Steve's mortification. It's not the way they usually do things, and they've been giving each other hell for so many years, Steve knows all of Bucky's tells. Bucky is...Jesus. He's actually serious.

Steve tries not to gape as Bucky shakes out the dress, so casual and easy as he gives it a critical eye that he could have fooled anyone else. Bucky's looking for a distraction, and Steve probably ought to let him have it. It's the stupidest idea either of them have ever had, and never mind that Steve had it first, years ago. He's only the brains in this friendship about half the time; it's Bucky he counts on for common sense.

"Well," he says slowly, "you do have that, uh, feature. But I don't know if you could play a convincing beau. I mean, what if someone got fresh with me?" he teases, making a show of fluttering his lashes. "You gonna tell 'em my dance card is full?"

Bucky goes still, recovering so fast even Steve's tempted to think he's imagining it. Something shifts in Bucky's eyes before it's shoved away in favor of a careless grin, something pained and a little scared, and just like that, Steve can't let Bucky make the crack he's opening his mouth to deliver.

"Because if it were me," Steve says, taking a cautious step closer, "I'm pretty sure I'd have to show 'em, not tell 'em. You know what a bad actor I am."

Bucky closes his mouth, eyes as uncertain as the tiny smile that tugs at his lips. "Yeah?" he asks gruffly, not budging an inch. "Show 'em how?"

It's not really a story for the grandkids, how he and Bucky had their first kiss in the backroom of a French whorehouse with a borrowed blue dress held forgotten between them, but Steve will take it. He will.


End file.
